The Faerie Tree (28 page)

“Neither is chocolate,” Robin replies.

“Yes, but eggs are.” Claire pops a sweet into her mouth. “Like hot cross buns.”

“The stone in front of the tomb and the crucifixion,” I join in.

Robin puts the toast down on the table. “Fertility and Eostre.”

He says it in a strange way – not like Easter at all.

“Eostre?” Claire mimics him.

“Yes – the goddess of spring in the old calendar.”

“The old calendar?”

“Pre Christian. Before they came and nicked our beliefs,” he laughs.

“So the word Easter comes from before Christ?” Claire is clearly enthralled.

“It's possible. She was an Anglo Saxon goddess associated with the spring equinox but her name could be much older. In heathenry many rites are celebrated by baking and her symbol is a cross. And to pagans a cross means giving in all its forms; so a fish pie definitely counts.”

“You know a lot about it.”

Robins nods. “It comes from Jennifer. Her knowledge, her beliefs – I kind of absorbed them over the years. They made more sense to me than any organised religion.”

“So you mean you're a pagan? Wow.”

He shrugs. “I suppose. If you must label it.”

“What, druids and stuff, and dancing naked under the trees at dawn?” She leans forwards but I am pinned to the back of my chair, the wooden bars eating into my spine.

Robin's laugh ricochets around my head. “Not on your life! For us it's more about respect for the natural world. Yes, we have rites and celebrations…”

Tea slops over the table as I put my mug down. “You really believe in all that mumbo jumbo?”

He frowns. “It depends what you mean by ‘all', Izzie.”

“All of it? Any of it! Worshipping rocks and trees? Are you completely stupid?” My voice has risen to a scream.

Robin shoots back in his chair. “Izzie – please – calm down.”

“But it's what you believe – it's important.”

“Yes, it is. But only to me – I'm not asking you to buy into it. Or insult me because of it either.”

I ignore the warning note in his voice. “But it's not normal: Paganism… it's some kind of warped freak show…”

He flings his knife from his hand and it spins across the table, his face a sudden storm of anger.

“Yeah – a freak – that's just exactly what you think I am, isn't it? Dodgy memory, dodgy bank balance, dodgy job and now I'm stupid as well. Well on that count at least you're right.” Three strides and he is at the kitchen door. He twists around to face me. “You can forget it, Izzie, just forget it, OK?”

Chapter Sixty-Six

Claire and I sit in silence. Upstairs doors slam and drawers open and close. Butter congeals on Robin's abandoned toast. Finally she touches my arm.

“Stop him, Mum.”

“No.”

She stands up.

“Claire – no. He must do what he feels is right.”

“But Mum… don't you love him?”

“This… this isn't about me.”

Heavy footsteps run down the stairs. The front door opens, but it doesn't close. Not immediately. We listen as an enormous anorak rustles from its hook and wellingtons and walking boots are gathered up, scraping across the floor. Then, finally, there is a gentle click and a few minutes later the sound of Robin's van starting.

Then Claire does move. “Mum – what have you done?” she yells before she rushes from the room. But she is enough of my daughter not to try to follow him; instead she throws herself howling onto the sofa.

One thought and one alone comes into my mind. I whisper it out loud. “How the hell did that happen?” One minute we were having a slightly fractious but entirely normal family
breakfast and the next Robin has gone. There must have been warning signs. How have I missed them?

My numbness is pierced by Claire's sobs. I edge onto the sofa and stroke her hair.

“Sshh, darling. He'll come back.”

“But he packed – he took everything.”

“Perhaps not everything.”

“Oh, Mum… you know what I mean.”

I have no answer. My hand runs over and over her head. The rhythm soothes me.

Claire rolls onto her back and wipes her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Why, Mum?”

I screw up my face. “I… I don't know. It was such a small thing, after all.”

She sits up. “I don't mean why did he leave; I mean why did you go for him like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you're always doing when he's so lovely to us. You're a week into the holidays – you shouldn't be stressed by now.”

“Like I always do?” Do I?

“You know you do – every little thing and you're on his case. You were never like that with Dad.”

I can't remember. I stand up and wander into the hall. Robin has left his keys on the table – he really does mean this. Claire hears me pick them up and starts to cry again.

I crouch beside the sofa. “What would you like me to do?” I ask.

She looks up and sniffs. “Tell me… do you want Robin back?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then phone him – say you're sorry. He'll come back if you do, I know he will.”

I wish I could share her confidence. “Alright. But best give him time to calm down first, don't you think?”

Claire nods. “I've never seen him angry before.”

While we wait we decide to plant the vegetable patch. Claire texts Jack to postpone their date and I'm glad.

The packets of seeds are in a shoebox in the garage. Robin had a plan of where everything should go and Claire makes a better fist of remembering than I do. I keep thinking about being relegated to planting the salad at half term. Now I am following the instructions on the packs, raking over the earth, making little drills and watching as Claire counts the seeds in. The soil smells damp and comforting and the sun starts to warm my back.

In the distance the doorbell rings.

“You go,” says Claire. “It might be Robin.”

It is the longest walk across the lawn and my boots stick to my feet as I heel them off on the sill of the patio doors. I all but run across the living room and skid onto the tiles in the hall. There is a tall shape through the glass but I know it isn't Robin. It's Jack.

“I'm sorry to disturb you Mrs O'Briain but I was worried about Claire. I won't stay long and I won't be any trouble – Mum dropped me over with my bike so I can cycle back.”

I am clutching the doorframe.

“Mrs O'Briain?”

“Sorry, Jack – I was miles away. Thanks so much for coming though – Claire's in the garden – I'll show you.”

At first I watch them through the kitchen window. The sheer delight on Claire's face when she sees who it is. He spins her around and wraps her into him and she just comes up to his chin. Robin holding me. I can't think that; it isn't – this is Claire. Jack kisses the tip of her nose and she burrows her face into his sweatshirt.

After a while she pulls away. I cannot see her face but Jack's is tense, anxious. He is talking very fast and holding both her hands. If he glances towards the house he will see me for the peeping tom I am. I turn away and make myself a cup of tea I do not want and open a newspaper I am incapable of reading.

I hear them come through the patio door.

“I'll be off then, Mrs O'Briain.”

I offer him a drink before he goes and he gulps down a can of coke, one hand holding Claire's all the time. “Thanks for coming,” I say. “It really is nice of you.”

He smiles. “I so wanted to.”

Claire sees him to the front door. I suspect she waves him off down the street as well. She looks thoughtful when she comes back into the kitchen.

“Good choice, Claire,” I tell her. “Unusually considerate for a teenager.”

“Yes, he was worried about us – but also feeling a bit guilty.”

“Guilty? Why on earth would he feel guilty?”

Some coke has spilt onto the table and Claire starts to make shapes in it with her index finger. “When I texted him I said I couldn't understand how something so small had blown up so quickly and there must be something else behind it. He came over to tell me he knew what it might be. Was it, Mum – did you and Robin argue over Jack?”

“Why would we do that? And Claire, look at me while we're talking.”

Her head jerks up. “Robin caught Jack out. He… he went with another girl after a party and… and they bumped into Robin. Of course he asked him not to say anything but Robin said he was going to tell you. Jack wondered if perhaps that had sparked something off.”

Why is it teenagers always think they are the centre of the universe? “So Jack came around here to unburden his own guilt when you're hurting so badly anyway?”

“No, Mum – it wasn't like that. He said he'd wanted to tell me on Tuesday but he wasn't brave enough. He said he wanted it out in the open and that I was different and he'd never do it again, and he didn't want any lies between us.”

I wonder if he would have said the same if he hadn't been caught. I wonder if by ‘went with' he meant he'd had sex with the other girl. I wonder what Claire took it to mean. I wonder if sex means anything at all to these kids. I wonder why Robin didn't tell me, when it was my daughter's welfare at stake.

“Mum?”

My fury gathers pace but it is unformed, swirling circles of emotion. Purples, blacks, deep, deep reds.

“Mum… are you OK?”

Colours inside my head and bursting in front of my eyes. I stand up and grope for the sink, finding it just in time. Acrid tea and yellow bile splatter on the stainless steel. I cling to the taps as Claire supports me, her child's body all that holds me upright.

Robin

Chapter Sixty-Seven

On Easter Monday it rained. Great torrents whipped through the gaps in Jennifer's window frames and smashed the early blossom from the trees. I hurried from the woodstore, arms full of logs, and managed to light the Aga. Apart from laying old towels on the windowsills I couldn't think of anything else to do.

As soon as I arrived the day before I'd left a voicemail for Stephen telling him I was back – it was his house, after all. I was relieved when he hadn't picked up; I would've struggled to tell him about what had happened, so I just said I hoped me being back here wouldn't change his plans. Even if he put the house on the market tomorrow and someone snapped it up I'd probably have a couple of months to find a new home.

I tried to see the kitchen through a buyer's eyes. The vases in the corner of the worktop, the wooden chopping boards, the kettle with the chipped enamel spout, the piles of recipes cut from magazines; so achingly familiar to me but a total mess to anyone else. In Izzie's kitchen I'd kept the worktops clear and sparkling. But I couldn't think about Izzie or her kitchen right now.

Sorting out some of the crap seemed a sensible occupation and I decided to start with the attic. Jennifer's bedroom was the largest and I pushed her bed back against the wardrobe to make the most of the floor space. Caught in the patina of fluff on the carpet was a hairgrip. As I picked it up and tucked it into the pocket of my jeans I was almost defeated before I had begun.

Dampness filled my nostrils as I opened the loft hatch. I reached up and pulled on the ladder, releasing a cascade of dust. I climbed a few steps, groped for the nearest black plastic bag and hauled it down and along the landing.

I don't think Jennifer ever threw anything out. The bag was full of threadbare curtains and cushion covers which had been in the living room. Patterned with small birds, they had seemed alive to her when she became ill and I had changed them for plain green ones. It made no difference; she still saw sparrows flying around the room and even put out seeds for them in her best china dishes. I wondered if every bag and box would hold such cruel memories.

Some held no memories for me at all. Crates of Susan's school books, a suitcase of toy dolls, years' worth of Readers Digest from the 50s and 60s. Some of this might have a saleable value and I set it to one side to show to Stephen. To this pile I added two pictures in ornate frames, so mildewed I could only just make out they were landscapes, and went back to the attic to fetch the next box.

This one was mine – I knew the moment I opened the lid – it was full of papers from the early years of my business. I'd known nothing about book-keeping but Jennifer had made me list all the money I earned and keep all the receipts for things I'd bought. Yellow and faded as they were, I could still make some of them out; 59p for a packet of broad bean seeds in 1993, a handwritten garage bill for some new tyres from the same year – £45. This lot was destined to light my next bonfire.

“Robin? Where are you?”

I was so taken aback by the sound of Stephen's voice I didn't reply. I shoved the papers into the box and unfolded myself from the floor.

“Ga – the loft hatch is open.”

The catch in his voice loosened my tongue. “It's OK – I'm here, in your Gran's bedroom. I'm sorting out stuff from the attic.”

Stephen picked his way through the mess to hug me while Gareth hovered at the door. “Are you OK?” Stephen asked.

“I'll live.”

“What happened?”

What had indeed? “Come on, let's make a cuppa. What are you guys doing here anyway?”

“We were staying in the New Forest so when I got your message we thought we'd drop by on the way home to see how you were.”

“I didn't mean to put you out. I just thought I should let you know I was back – it is your house, after all.” I started down the stairs but Stephen put his hand on my arm.

“And it's your home, Robin, for however long you want it to be.”

“Now that's downright sentimental. I mean, if you put it on the market now I'd still have at least a couple of months to sort myself out. I'm making a start, as you can see.”